


I'll Fix This

by Mishapocalyptic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Death, Gen, Sad, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 16:17:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishapocalyptic/pseuds/Mishapocalyptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shortly after Dean is dragged to Hell, Sam finds himself without a purpose. (Major Character Death)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Fix This

Sam had watched his brother die, lying on the floor of some suburban house. He was torn to shreds by hell hounds. They had come to reap their prize, and they got it. They took Dean away from Sam.

Despite all of that, Sam had tried to move on, like he promised he would. He stayed with Bobby a while, and he did a few odd hunts. But, in the end, he didn’t have the drive, the ambition. He was death on legs. Everywhere he went, he felt like he was just under par, and, finally, he stopped trying.

Bobby had allowed him to stay, hoping Sam might make some use of himself and keep the place tidied up. He didn’t. Sam moped, endlessly. He sat around and cried. That was all he was capable of anymore. Ultimately, hunting had reminded Sam too much of Dean. Bobby’s place reminded Sam too much of Dean, too.

One day, Sam up and left. He packed a few things, took the Impala, and drove off, leaving Bobby his new cell phone number and nothing else. As he drove down the highway with no particular destination in mind, he replayed Dean’s cassettes over and over again. He was a man obsessed. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t get over his brother’s death, and it ate away at him until he couldn’t take it anymore.

When Sam finally stopped driving, it had been two days. He hadn’t eaten, hadn’t slept, and had hardly stopped. He found himself in Lawrence, Kansas, their childhood home. Sam personally didn’t remember much about life in Lawrence, but Dean did, and he wouldn’t go back because it reminded him of the time that Mary was around.

Sam put himself up in a hotel, and walked around town, drinking in the sights and wondering how different it had been when he and Dean were children. Friendly faces greeted him as he walked down the street, exclaiming “Hello!”s and “Great day, huh?”s at him. Sam merely waved back.

He went to a diner on a street corner and sat at the bar. A cook looked out from the kitchen and creased his brow curiously.

“Hey, kid!” Sam looked up in the direction of the cook. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so, no,” Sam answered honestly.

“That’s weird. You look awfully familiar.” The cook stared at Sam intently. It made Sam uncomfortable. “You from around here?” Sam shook his head.

“I was born here, but we moved away before I was even a year old.”

“Your parents from around here?” Sam was becoming intrigued.

“Uh, yes sir.” The cook smiled and came out from the back to stand in front of Sam.

“Then I’ll betcha I know ‘em,” he wagered. “I’ve been working here since 1972.” Sam shrugged, suggesting the maybe the cook had known John and Mary. “Tell me their names.” Sam swallowed thickly.

“John and Mary Winchester.” The cook’s eyes brightened.

“I remember them! John was a nice young fellow, and Mary... Woo, she was a pistol!” The cook sighed contently. “Tell me, how’s John doing? I haven’t seen him since Mary’s death.”

“Dad died... About two years ago, actually.” Sam looked down at the empty placemat in front of him.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Sam, what happened?”

“A-a car accident. How’d you know my name?”

“Dean told me before you were born how excited he was to have a brother. He told me that Mary wanted to name you Samuel, after your grandfather.” Sam nodded in understanding. “Where is Dean? I wouldn’t imagine you two would separate after losing John.”

“Dean died a year ago.” Sam wiped his eyes. “I’m the only one left.” The cook placed a firm, weathered hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, shh, calm down. Sam, I’m sorry to hear about Dean.” The cook stooped down a little to command Sam’s attention. “And I know you don’t want sympathy, but do you think Dean would want you crying over him?” Sam shook his head.

“No, no. You’re right. Dean’s never been one for being cried over. He’d want me to move on.” The cook tilted his head. “Um, is anyone living in my old house?”

“No. Why?”

“I wanted to go look around at the old place.”

“Just don’t hang onto your past so much. Okay Sam?”

“Okay.” Sam got up to leave, having lost his minimal appetite after that conversation.

“My name’s Roger, if you need anything!” the cook called behind him.

Sam wandered down the streets of Lawrence before eventually making his way to the former Winchester residence. A car flew by him, blasting a tune that Sam knew all too well out of the windows. It was “Travelling Riverside Blues” by Led Zeppelin, one of Dean’s favourite songs. 

Sam could feel the anger and depression welling up inside of him. How had he let his brother do this? Dean knew, he knew, that Sam was nothing without him, but Dean had such a minute feeling of self-worth that he’d been stupid enough to think that Sam could just assimilate himself back into the kind of life he’d had at Stanford. Damn him, Sam thought. A nagging voice in the back of his head reminded him that it was too late for that; Dean was already damned.

Sam spotted his old house, restored after the fire and many years of weathering. Despite the changes, he could tell. A feeling of hollow happiness mingled with dread blossomed in his heart. He crossed the street, uncaring about the possibility of getting hit. He reached the house without a scratch; he wouldn’t have cared if there’d been twenty. He noticed a lock on the door like the kind used on open houses. He looked around, and it was then that he noticed the “for sale” sign in the front yard. He sighed exasperatedly and sneaked around to the back door.

He grabbed the set of lock picks that he kept with him out of his back pocket. The sun beat down on the house, and Sam could feel the May heat beating down on him as he skillfully picked the lock. Once inside, he looked around, drinking in the sights before him with hungry eyes. It hadn’t changed much after they had saved that family only three years prior. Or was it four? Everything was running together in his mind.

He breathed in the musky scent, a smell more like old house than the exterior renovations would suggest. It felt like home, a place where he could feel safe. He had hardly known it as a home, but perhaps the bittersweet memories of a life before hunting made it so homey.

Sam wandered upstairs toward the room he knew to have been his nursery. There was no sign of a fire, no sign of the blood on the ceiling, but as he looked around, he saw vague flashes of the memory stain the room. His eyes prickled with tears and he meandered back down to the kitchen. The tears were flowing freely now, and he searched through drawer after drawer for a piece of paper and a pen. He came across a notepad that had been discarded under some fliers for the house. He took a pen from the display on the counter.

As he scribbled away, he wiped his eyes, trying to keep the tears from the paper. They’d smudge the ink, and that would defeat the purpose, right? What was the point of writing a note if it was unreadable. Sam folded up the note and put the pen back where found it.

He trudged up the stairs again, each footstep feeling heavier than the last. He heard a car pull up in front of the house. Time was running out. He rounded the corner to his old room and went inside. Looking around, the memories played through his head again, as if he was watching them happen rather than being involved.

He carefully removed his pocket knife from his pocket. He’d sharpened it before heading over. This would be painless; it had to be. He opened it, looking at his reflection in the blade. The face staring back wasn’t his; it was a stranger, a shell of what he had been. It was red, blotchy, tear stained. The hazel eyes had lost their luster, and were framed by red. His eyes were puffy, and Sam was disgusted.

He hated himself. He couldn’t believe that he had let his brother sacrifice himself. They were brothers and they were supposed to protect each other, sure, but it should never have gotten this far. Sam would make it okay. Sam would fix things.

He heard the lock on the front door click as he pressed the blade into his wrist, slicing quickly but effectively, and then, with a shaky hand, he cut the other one. There was a dull pain, but nothing that he couldn’t handle. He heard faint voices as he vision went dark, his knees became weak, and his body began to chill. He crumpled to the floor, an oddly satisfied smile on his face.

 

The police had been very stumped. According to Roger, the boy had seemed well-adjusted to his brother’s death. So why? Why did he do it?

It was only after further inspection of the body that they found it, Sam’s note. It was tear stained and blood stained. The note offered no evidence to the police, but Sam had known that it wouldn’t help. He hadn’t cared. When Roger came up to the crime scene, he saw the note, discarded on a table.

 

Dean, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I let you down and I’m sorry that you had to go like that. I’m going to fix this. I’m going to make everything alright. Dean, I love you. I really do. You’re the best brother I could have asked for. I only hope someone will tell you about this note, but I can tell you myself if I have to. I’m sure we’ll see each other down there. We deserve it. I’m sorry.

Love,  
Sammy.

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't hate me for this. This was for a different round of the same contest the Spongebob one was for, except this was supposed to be gut wrenching. My friend who was running it loves Sam and she hated me for this... So yeah. I hated me for this.


End file.
